


Leaves in the Void

by myrmidryad



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Isolation, Love Confessions, M/M, or the effects of it at any rate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-07-04 17:35:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15846069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrmidryad/pseuds/myrmidryad
Summary: “That’s a code orange,” Grantaire said, staring as Bahorel floated over to the bridge to check it. “Immediate return.”The crew of the Musain rejoins the Corinthe to discover that Enjolras was trapped in an impossible room on an abandoned spaceship for what was two hours to everyone else, and eight and a half months for him. While he was in there, not expecting to see any of them ever again, he wrote each of them a farewell letter.





	Leaves in the Void

**Author's Note:**

> I've looked at so much of Fi's art that I completely internalised her Enjolras and Grantaire designs for this fic. So check out this particular Enjolras [here](https://the-march-hair.tumblr.com/post/171608342552/the-next-nucanon-because-why-have-only-one) and Grantaire [here](https://the-march-hair.tumblr.com/post/176961278587/r-sketch-cos-r) and them being cute together [here](https://the-march-hair.tumblr.com/post/173307194907/enjoltaire). Browse Fi's blog for more!

They’d been in position for almost a day, the ship dark in anticipation of their part in the plan to ambush the supply shipment. The Musain was their secondary ship, so the crew was small – only Grantaire, Bahorel, Joly, and Éponine. They were playing cards when the message came through.

“That’s a code orange,” Grantaire said, staring as Bahorel floated over to the bridge to check it. “Immediate return.”

Too risky to broadcast more. It was going to be risky enough getting out of this sector fast without being discovered.

“Something must have gone wrong back on the Corinthe,” Éponine frowned, getting up to slide into the captain’s chair. “Bahorel, stealth. Joly, Aire, strap in.”

Grantaire pulled the cards up from the table (they had to be magnetised to be played in zero-G) and pushed himself over to his seat, next to Joly’s. They exchanged worried looks once they were secure. An immediate return order could mean anything from the plan changing to the crew of the Corinthe coming under attack. They wouldn’t be able to ask for clarification until they were out of the sector, and even then the Corinthe might not answer. Their encryption was good, but anything could be hacked.

“Hold on, gents,” Éponine called, the engine humming into life. “We’re going fast.”

Grantaire didn’t ask whether they had the fuel – Éponine wouldn’t take any unnecessary risks. Next to him, Joly squeezed his eyes shut and braced himself, and Grantaire kept an eye on him as the Musain began to move. At least with gravity activated again, he’d be able to let his hair down. If he didn’t keep it wrapped while they were in zero-G, his locs ended up fuzzed with lint and dust after about a day.

As soon as Éponine gave the okay, Grantaire began to talk. “So, taking bets on what’s happened. Now I know the most likely is that they’ve just got some intel we don’t and the plan’s shifted, but I’m looking for some more exciting answers than that. Joly?”

“Space whales,” Joly said after a moment. “They’ve been surrounded by a pod of space whales and Combeferre’s become friends with the leader.”

“A good start, perhaps a little imaginative, but I’ll accept it. Bahorel?”

“Hmmm. Bossuet and Musichetta couldn’t bear to be without Joly for a second longer and overrode the system? Oooh! How about this – Chetta’s pregnant!”

“That would be quite the miracle,” Joly said dryly, “seeing as how we’re all on contraception.”

“Miracles happen,” Grantaire said. “Éponine?”

“They’ve found a better prize than the shipment we were going to steal,” she decided. “Something huge. Like, the last job we’ll ever need to run huge.”

“Please.” Grantaire snorted. “Maybe if we were in it for the money, but we could happen across a bank shipment worth two planets and Enjolras wouldn’t care. He’d give it to Combeferre and Courfeyrac to figure out the best way to spend it and carry right on with his piratical crusading.” Les Amis de l’ABC was a sprawling organisation with a general focus on human and AI rights and a laser sharp focus on liberating AI tech that was, in their view, enslaved. Advocating on behalf of potentially sentient beings most people didn’t even think to give a shit about not being a profitable business, the most active members of the ABC were primarily engaged in piracy to fund said liberation. Grantaire maintained he was only there because Bahorel had needed a favour, and he’d stayed because it was just cruelty to watch a crew starve to death through sheer incompetence in the kitchen.

Space, in between the exciting bits, which had more to do with people than the emptiness they travelled through, was very boring. They pinged the Corinthe for coordinates once they were out of the sector, and all groaned when they saw it almost hadn’t moved since they’d left it, which meant they’d be travelling for a week. “They couldn’t at least meet us halfway?” Bahorel complained.

“They’ll have their reasons,” Éponine sighed. 

“They’d better be good,” Grantaire muttered. A week and a half back was going to be boring as hell.

 

“Incoming hail from the Corinthe,” Éponine called before answering it. “This is the Musain, what’s up?”

Grantaire was on the treadmill, and slowed it down so he could better hear them. It was strange, the Corinthe hailing them when they were less than half an hour away from docking with them.

“We need to give you a heads up on the situation before you get here.” It was Cosette speaking, and Grantaire stopped the machine, because Enjolras was usually the one who called.

“Is everyone alright?” Joly asked, hurrying onto the bridge. “What happened?”

“Nobody’s hurt.” Cosette sounded grave. “But we had a problem. We were on our way to our position when we found a dead ship. We went aboard to investigate, and…well, it was, um. Weird as fuck.”

Grantaire got off the treadmill, almost bumping into Bahorel as he climbed out of his bunk. Both of them went up to join Joly and Éponine.

“Enjolras was taking point, and he went through this door and it closed behind him. It wasn’t on the schematics, or the blueprints, and we couldn’t hear him on the other side at all. We got the door open in a couple of hours, but…on his side, he’d been trapped for eight and a half months.”

Grantaire’s jaw went slack. Joly was the first to recover. “That’s not possible.”

“I know. But this room – we’ll tell you more when you get in – but he was definitely in there for months, and to him it felt like even longer. He’s, well.” Cosette paused, and Grantaire’s heart clenched, reeling in horror at the idea of spending so long in total isolation. “It really messed him up,” she went on softly. “I wanted to warn you before you get here. He’s going to hug you, a lot. He can’t bear to be on his own for even a second anymore; he keeps worrying we’re hallucinations or something, so one of us is always touching him at any given time now. Don’t act weird about it, okay? He’s been really worried about you all.”

“Is he there?” Bahorel asked. When Grantaire looked at him, he saw he was pale. “Can we talk to him?”

“Better to do it in person. He hasn’t been clear about whether he experienced auditory hallucinations, but he doesn’t really trust his ears anymore, I don’t think. He’s been talking a lot more too. Just…don’t be weird about it. You’re almost here, we’ll all meet you when you dock.”

“We’ll be there in ten minutes,” Éponine said sharply. “See you then.”

“Good. Corinthe out.”

The silence lasted for several long seconds. Joly was the one who broke it, sinking into Bahorel’s chair. “Poor Enjolras.”

“Eight and a half _months_.” Bahorel stared at Grantaire, still pale. “Fuck, can you imagine?”

“I was in solitary for a week once,” Éponine said quietly, not looking at any of them. “There’s a reason it’s classified as a form of torture.” Her hands moved on the control panels, speeding them up.

Grantaire couldn’t wrap his mind around it. Enjolras wasn’t exactly obvious about it, but he was intensely social. Grantaire almost never saw him without Combeferre or Courfeyrac, or one of the other crew members. Even when they were landed, he didn’t go off on his own. Enjolras was happiest when they were all together, eating or talking or playing one of the games he said was a waste of time. It was something Grantaire made fun of him for, behind his back.

Grantaire wouldn’t have lasted a single month on his own, let alone eight. The idea of being locked in a room for so long with no way of getting out and no way of contacting anyone on the outside was terrifying. 

He was feeling almost nauseated by the time they docked, his stomach twisting with anticipation of what awaited them. Would Enjolras look the same? What had he been eating in there? How come his prison hadn’t shown up on the dead ship’s blueprints? 

They stood close together in the docking bay, arms brushing, waiting for the doors to lift. There was a window on the inner door, and once the outer panel had lifted they could see everyone on the other side, Enjolras at the front. His eyes were wide, flicking to each of them quickly like he was drinking in the sight of them. He looked the same, but wilder, even though his mane of dark hair was pulled back from his face. Grantaire realised it as their inner door began to rise – he’d never seen Enjolras look desperate before.

As soon as he could, Enjolras was under the door. Bahorel was closest, so he was the recipient of the first hug. Grantaire felt like he was watching from the ceiling, so shocked he could hardly accept it as he, Joly, and Éponine were all dragged into the embrace. He ended up pressed against Enjolras’ left side, Enjolras’ curls against his face. He’d never been this close before, close enough to smell Enjolras’ soap and skin, and the part of his brain that never _shut up_ couldn’t help wondering how Enjolras had managed to keep his hair in good condition for so long without any products.

Enjolras was crying. Grantaire froze as he realised it, starting to draw back, and that just made Enjolras turn to him and hug him instead. And Grantaire couldn’t not hug back, not when Enjolras was _crying_ , so he did. Enjolras was only a couple of inches shorter than him, not counting the hair, and Grantaire could feel him shaking. One of Enjolras’ hands was high on his shoulders, his fingertips curling into the neck of Grantaire’s shirt. 

Fuck, he’d imagined this, he’d wished for it, he’d fucking _dreamed_ of it, and it was happening and he felt like raw filth for thinking of that while Enjolras was literally crying into his shoulder.

Enjolras pulled away, and Grantaire thought (hoped) he would move onto Joly or Éponine, but he kissed Grantaire’s cheek first. Hard and long, like he was trying to press it into Grantaire’s skin. He kissed them all, then hugged Éponine and Joly at the same time, the two of them practically holding him up.

Grantaire had to take a step back. His heart was racing, and he knew when he looked over at the rest of the Corinthe’s crew that he probably looked like an idiot, poleaxed, mouth agape and eyes wide.

Bossuet and Jehan were grinning at him. The others were looking at Enjolras with a horrible mixture of worry and relief. No one had ever looked at Enjolras like that before, not on their crew. They’d never needed to. 

“I missed you,” Enjolras said beside him, and Grantaire turned to look. Enjolras met his eyes for a second, still holding onto Joly. “I missed you all so much, I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

“This is so fucking weird.” Grantaire’s mouth ran ahead of his brain, and he could _feel_ the others wincing on his behalf, but Enjolras just laughed. It was watery, and maybe a bit hysterical, but it was definitely a laugh.

“It is,” he agreed, lifting a hand to wipe at his face. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I know it’s only been a couple of weeks for you.”

“Not for you though.” Joly squeezed his shoulder, frowning. “Let’s go inside, shall we? How are you feeling? I know Combeferre will have checked you over already, but…”

“You can again,” Enjolras said, smiling at him. “I don’t mind.”

“Fuck me,” Bahorel muttered. Grantaire knew the feeling. Enjolras never would have submitted to an extra, unnecessary medical examination before.

They left the Musain behind, and when Joly, Combeferre, and Enjolras went to the med bay, the rest of them went to the mess (which had been refitted a long time ago into something more like a lounge than a dining room), where they were told that the new plan was to head for Libera, the closest friendly planet, to restock, reassess, and allow Enjolras to walk outside on proper terraformed ground, warmed by a real sun. 

Grantaire didn’t speak while Éponine and Bahorel asked questions. “Still in shock?” Jehan whispered in his ear, and Grantaire gave her a wide-eyed look that he knew confirmed it. 

The mysterious, unplotted room was even more impossible than they’d realised. For starters, Courfeyrac told them, it had been much more than a room. It had been like an A-class size ship inside the little cargo carrier they’d boarded. Enjolras had gone exploring at one point and gotten lost for a long time, possibly weeks. He said that the corridors had shifted and moved, and he thought he’d never find his way back to the door. 

The strangest thing was how he’d never gotten hungry or needed to go to the toilet. The oxygen never ran out. The gravity had been active, even though the cargo ship wasn’t moving. There had been energy and electricity, but not the hum of an engine. The whole ship, if that was what it was, had been completely silent. They’d only found out how long Enjolras had been in there by analysing the data his helmet had recorded. 

It sounded like a horror story, but Enjolras had lived it. Months and months without any human contact, growing more and more certain that he would never see anyone again. “So far we’ve been dealing with this by basically going along with whatever Enjolras needs,” Courfeyrac said heavily. “Like the constant touching thing. If any of you try to make a joke out of it, I swear to god, I will throw you out of the airlock.” He glanced at Grantaire, who flushed.

“I wouldn’t,” he muttered, but no one was listening.

Jehan told him in the galley afterwards what it had been like when they’d finally gotten the door open. They’d been a bit panicky by then, because Enjolras’ suit would have been running out of air, but they’d found a stable atmosphere and oxygen levels when they’d gone in. 

“It was orange,” Jehan said, sitting on the counter as Grantaire started fixing up a meal for everyone. When they were all on the Corinthe, he was the unofficial ship’s cook. “Quite cheerful-looking, actually, like our bridge. We walked in, helmets up, and we couldn’t see him at first. He’d been sleeping in a corner, and you should’ve seen his face when he saw us, Aire. It was horrible.” 

Grantaire stopped assembling ingredients and looked at her. Jehan cried easily, but it was still horrible to see tears sparkling in her eyes and remember the way Enjolras had cried when he’d hugged them. 

“He couldn’t believe it was us until he touched us, and then he started crying and just couldn’t stop.” Jehan sighed. “He didn’t stop for ages. And when I was going to go further in he practically had a panic attack – he was terrified of any of us getting lost or stranded there like he had.”

“What happened to the ship it was on?” Grantaire finally thought to ask.

“Destroyed it. He insisted, and honestly, I think it was the right thing to do. Some things are too impossible to be real. It’s a shame, in some ways, but I think he’d be having an even harder time of it right now if he knew it was still out there. What are you making?”

“Not sure. Is there any cheese left?”

“No.”

“Damn. Bolognese then, I guess.” He frowned as he got cans of tomatoes out, and took the can opener Jehan passed him. “Enjolras likes that, right?”

Jehan smiled. “Of course he does. He likes everything you cook.”

“No, he doesn’t like my hoop-le-loop.”

“Well, it is a bit weird.”

“Nice though.” 

“Mmm.”

Grantaire emptied tomatoes into the biggest pot in the kitchen and turned on the burner underneath it. Unprompted, Jehan started telling him more. Enjolras had written them all long letters while he’d been trapped, and they were the only thing he’d brought back with him. They’d all slept together in the mess on the first night in a pile on the floor, Enjolras in the middle so he could feel them surrounding him. He’d woken up four times anyway from nightmares, which he was still having. Combeferre and Courfeyrac were both sleeping with him at the moment, and didn’t look like they were going to stop anytime soon.

He’d been skittish for days, and couldn’t bear to talk to someone without touching them at the same time to be sure they were real. They’d all sort of gotten into the habit of touching him while they were speaking, a hand on his arm or shoulder. Cosette played with or combed his hair whenever they were close. Feuilly kissed his cheeks every time they passed each other. 

“I recite poetry,” Jehan told Grantaire, smiling. “It was the first thing we did that helped him calm down. He couldn’t entirely convince himself we were real until we could do or say something that he would never be able to think of himself. I recited The Quangle Wangle’s Hat while Marius went in and got the letters he’d written, just after we got him out.”

“His clothes,” Grantaire said, the thought just occurring to him. “Were they worn?”

“Oh yes. Kind of disgusting, really. He found showers while he was lost, but only three, so he didn’t smell too great when we got him out. Not as bad as it should have been though – Bossuet thinks that whatever was keeping his body from needing to eat was also stopping him sweating the way a normal person would, and stopped other normal processes like his hair and skin drying out too.”

“That’s really fucking weird.”

“And completely impossible.” She shrugged. “But sometimes miracles occur. Even horrible ones.”

Jehan went after a while, and Grantaire was left alone in the galley, the small space filling with the smell of tomatoes and spices.

What would he have done, left alone for so long?

Grantaire couldn’t imagine how Enjolras had found the strength and hope to keep going. He wouldn’t have lasted half as long, he was sure of it. No wonder Enjolras was all twisted up. It was still strange, and shocking, remembering the way he’d cried and clung to Grantaire in the loading bay. Already it seemed like something Grantaire had imagined, not something real.

“Grantaire?”

Speak of the devil.

Grantaire licked his lips before he nodded at Enjolras in the doorway. “Hi.”

“Can I come in?”

“Sure, yeah. As long as you don’t mind being a taster.”

Enjolras smiled. “I don’t mind. It’s still kind of weird to eat. I keep forgetting.”

“Fuck.” Grantaire blinked at him, hesitating on a crude question. Enjolras tilted his head.

“What?”

“I, um.”

“I don’t mind,” Enjolras said. “Whatever it is.”

“Do you forget to, um.”

“Go to the toilet?” Enjolras’ lips twitched. “Less often. It’s harder to ignore.”

“Sorry.” Grantaire could feel the heat in his cheeks. Courfeyrac had been entirely serious about none of them poking any fun.

“I told you, I don’t mind. Jehan said you’re making bolognese?”

“Yeah.”

“How long until it’s done?”

“An hour, maybe.” Grantaire should have stirred it, but he couldn’t stop staring at Enjolras. “To simmer down a bit.”

“Can I taste it?”

“Sure.” Grantaire shuffled back from the pot and passed Enjolras the end of the spoon. Enjolras telegraphed his movements, but it was still a shock when he pressed his foot against Grantaire’s, their hips knocking together for a second. 

“I should’ve asked,” Enjolras said, seeing Grantaire’s face and moving away. He was holding the spoon handle, but didn’t lift it. “Sorry, everyone else has been…”

“Jehan said.” Grantaire made himself shake his head. “I don’t mind. It’s fine. Understandable, even – fuck knows I’d be touchy if I’d been through that.”

Enjolras nodded, and moved back into Grantaire’s space cautiously. One of the others would have made Enjolras feel welcomed and comfortable, Grantaire was sure. All he could do was stay still, uncertain and frozen. Enjolras’ hip was against his, their arms bumping as he lifted the spoon to his mouth and blew on it a couple of times before taking a tiny sip of the sauce.

He smiled. Grantaire’s stomach tightened in a way that was entirely too pleasant, and he looked down so he wouldn’t have to see any more. “It’s good,” Enjolras said, moving away. Grantaire could feel the places he’d touched like they were burning. “Obviously, I mean, you don’t need me to tell you that.”

“Hey, I’ll never turn down a compliment,” Grantaire laughed nervously. “Um. Is there…I don’t know, anything you wanted?” He winced even as he finished speaking. “Not that you need a reason, I don’t mean it like that.”

“You don’t need to tiptoe around me,” Enjolras informed him, sounding a bit like his normal haughty self. “I went through something awful and I’m still recovering. It’s not going to immediately be like it used to. I’m not the same.” He bent his head and rummaged in one of his pockets, hand going deep. “I did have something for you though. I don’t know if anyone said, but I wrote letters to everyone.”

“Yeah, Jehan told me.” And even though she’d said Enjolras had written one for each of them, he hadn’t quite believed that he was included in that.

“I’ve given everyone else theirs.” Enjolras pulled out a folded piece of lined yellow paper and held it out. Not a piece, Grantaire realised as he took it. Several pieces. With writing on both sides in Enjolras’ cramped handwriting.

“Thank you,” he said, a moment too late.

“It’s…” Enjolras hesitated, and Grantaire wondered wildly for a second whether he was blushing. His skin was just a little too dark to tell at a glance. “Well, they’re all personal. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again, any of you. They’re not all that coherent.” He was fidgeting, hands twisting together, and Grantaire remembered what Jehan had said about Enjolras needing to touch whoever he was talking to. Awkwardly, giving Enjolras plenty of time to move out of reach, Grantaire lifted his hand and touched Enjolras’ shoulder. 

Enjolras took a tiny step forward so that Grantaire’s hand was settled there, visibly relaxing. “Sorry,” he told Grantaire’s knees. “Someone told you. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not.” Grantaire couldn’t seem to feel the fingers of his other hand, the nerves of the ones touching Enjolras alight with the sensation of the soft synthetic sweater against his skin. With a great effort, Grantaire managed to squeeze Enjolras’ shoulder. “It’d fuck anyone up.”

“I suppose so.” Enjolras took a deep breath and gestured to the hand Grantaire was holding the letter in. “I promised myself I’d give them out if I ever saw you all again. They’re a bit morbid, but they’re all honest. It’s hard to tell, but I think I wrote them around two-thirds into my time there. If it seems like the tone is weird, it’s just because I took a long time on it.”

“Are you sure?” Grantaire asked after a moment. “Not to…I don’t know, I’m not saying no or anything, but if they’re that personal, are you sure you want us reading them?”

“The others already have. I don’t have any regrets so far.” Enjolras smiled, just a little. “Courfeyrac says he’s getting his framed. You might like it, you never know. You don’t have to read it at all, if you don’t want to.” Was it just Grantaire’s imagination, or did Enjolras look nervous?

He didn’t know if he wanted to know Enjolras’ deathbed thoughts about him, but he shook his head anyway. “No, it’s. I’ll read it. It, um. I’m not that great at handwritten stuff though, so it might take a while.”

“That’s fine. It’s your letter, there’s no deadline.” Enjolras reached up and squeezed Grantaire’s hand on his shoulder, not seeming to notice the way that it made Grantaire go tense all over. “Thank you. I’ll leave you to it.” Another smile, more awkward this time, and he slipped away from Grantaire’s hand and out of the galley.

Grantaire rubbed the paper between his fingers and thumb for a moment before lifting it to get a closer look. It was true that he wasn’t very good at reading handwritten writing, but it wouldn’t take him more than an evening to get through this. He just still wasn’t sure if he wanted to. 

Taking care not to crumple it, he slid the folded paper into his pocket and turned back to the sauce, cursing when he realised he’d forgotten to stir it since Enjolras had come in.

 

Grantaire’s cabin on the Corinthe was tiny to the point of being claustrophobic, but he loved it. The bunks on the Musain were all together in a hallway. Not even the captain had a private apartment; there just wasn’t room. On the Corinthe, Grantaire had privacy. Mainly, that meant he could get off without worrying about anyone overhearing, but there were other advantages too. The Corinthe was technically only built for a crew of ten – the only reason they could fit all thirteen of them on was because of the couples and triads among them. It was difficult on such a crowded ship to find a place to be alone.

And sure, it was a little strange to be thinking of the benefits of isolation after seeing the effects it had had on Enjolras, but Grantaire did need his own space sometimes. 

His cabin was the smallest type, accessed by a ladder off the bridge. Everything could be folded into the walls, or was already in a storage space there. His bunk folded down from the side, his clothes were stored in a closet space in the wall. It had taken him multiple cycles to find all the little hidey-holes and cubby spaces that were hidden around the room. He had to press a certain panel to open up the space where he kept a spare pair of boots, for instance. He had to dig his fingers between two other panels and pull to reveal the drawer where he kept his few personal possessions.

That was where this letter from Enjolras would go, if he could get up the courage to read it. But an hour in his cabin had yielded nothing but procrastination, fucking about on his tablet while the letter stayed hidden in his pocket.

Giving up, Grantaire pinged Jehan. _You awake?_

The reply was instant. _Yep. What’s up?_

_E gave me a letter. Have you read yours?_

_It made me cry. I might follow Courf’s example and get it framed._

_What sort of stuff did it say?_

_All the things he missed about me, all the things he’d say if I was with him, all the ways he likes me and thinks I’m amazing and inspirational. He said I was inspirational a lot actually, it was very flattering. He said he loved me a lot as well, which I think was a common theme for everyone. He really does love this whole crew. We always knew he was a sap on the inside, but these letters are next level. Do you remember when he got drunk in that bar on O-B-X after the round robin job, and he kept saying how glad he was to have found us all? It was a bit a like that, but much more considered and eloquent._

Grantaire tapped for face-to-face, and sighed as soon as Jehan appeared on his screen. “I don’t want to know what he really thinks about me. I’m happy in blissful ignorance.”

“Do you want me to read it first?” Jehan offered. “And I can tell you if it’s good or bad. Or whether there are bits you can skip, or something.”

Grantaire considered it. “Do you think he’d be mad?”

“He said we could all read each other’s letters if we wanted. And honestly, I don’t think he’s going to be capable of being angry at any of us for at least a month. Bossuet started whistling and he looked like he’d burst into tears. Happy tears.”

“He hates people whistling,” Grantaire said, blinking. “He literally said it was his least favourite bad habit anyone could have, over _not brushing their teeth_.”

“He missed it,” Jehan shrugged. “He missed being annoyed by us. I mean, if I was stuck on my own for that long, I’d romanticise the things that used to annoy me too. He’ll get annoyed by it again at some point, but this is the best grace period any of us are ever going to get.”

“But it’s not like you can take advantage of that, is it?”

“No, he’s been pretty deeply traumatised, so it would be deeply unethical, and C-squared would probably join forces to kill us if we tried.” Jehan smiled. “They’ve been quite adorable together, really. Almost like Chetta and the boys when they first got together.”

They’d been very close at dinner, it was true. Grantaire didn’t know what to make of it. Combeferre and Courfeyrac were a couple, but they’d eaten with Enjolras wedged between them, one or other of them always touching him. 

“Are you sure they’re not?” he asked. “Like, a throuple or whatever, I mean.”

“I’m sure. Courf told me it’s not sexual. Enjolras is starting to feel a bit guilty about it though, especially seeing as they’re sleeping with him and everything. But he can’t really take it being left on his own, apparently. I think I’d be the same.”

“I’d be your platonic sleeping partner,” Grantaire told her, and Jehan smirked.

“We’ve been a bit more than platonic on a few occasions.”

“Well yeah, but if you’ve been traumatised, maybe you’d care more about cuddles than cock,” Grantaire said dryly, and grinned when Jehan laughed.

“Who can say? Do you want me to come over and read your letter then?”

“Maybe tomorrow.” Grantaire chewed his lip. “I’m not sure. Is it stupid to be nervous?”

“Not necessarily. What do you think Enjolras thinks of you?”

“That I’m an irritation.” Grantaire gave her a resigned look through the screen. “Which I am. A passable cook, maybe. Sometimes not a distraction. My aim with a gun isn’t terrible.”

“Talk about damning with faint praise,” Jehan sighed. “You really think he doesn’t care about you at all? How many pages did he write you?”

“Hang on.” Grantaire dug in his pocket and pulled out the paper, checking with the edge of his thumb. “Five, double sided.”

Jehan raised her eyebrows. “I got three.”

“God, don’t tell me that,” Grantaire groaned, eyeing the paper with fresh trepidation. “What could he possibly want to say to me?”

“He missed Bossuet’s whistling,” Jehan reminded him. “Maybe he missed the way you make yourself known in his life too.”

“The ways I piss him off, you mean.”

“If he really didn’t like you, you wouldn’t be on the crew.” Multiple friends of his had told Grantaire that in some form or another since he’d joined the crew of the Corinthe, four years ago. He still had a hard time believing it.

“You know they keep me around because I’m somehow the only one of you who can cook without a recipe to follow.”

“It’s a valuable skill,” Jehan said seriously. “You can read mine before yours if you like, and I know most of the others would let you read theirs too. I think he thought we wouldn’t find him alive, and we’d share them all about anyway. Not until tomorrow though – I’m going to bed now. Try to sleep a few hours, okay?”

“I’ll try.”

“Take a knocker if you need it.”

“I will. Night.”

“Goodnight.” Jehan blew him a kiss and signed out. Grantaire set his tablet aside and sighed. He’d run out of knock-out pills while they were on the Musain, too tightly wound to settle properly. He’d never been an easy sleeper, and it was often harder when they were flying. His body could tell, somehow, even when the gravity was on.

So he probably wasn’t getting to sleep any time soon, and Enjolras’ letter was right there. He considered reading it for about twenty seconds, then chickened out and got up to change for bed, putting it back in the pocket of his trousers. Maybe tomorrow. Just not right now. He couldn’t even think about how Enjolras hadn’t expected to be found alive. He was unsettled enough as it was.

 

Grantaire was both touched and disturbed by Enjolras’ letter to Jehan. It was sappy in the extreme, and became a little incoherent towards the end, but mostly it was six pages full of Enjolras telling Jehan how much she’d always meant to him, and how much he loved and valued her.

Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta were all perfectly fine with Grantaire reading their letters as well. It became clearer, reading theirs, how Enjolras had tailored each one to its recipient. For Joly, he had tried to clearly detail every physical anomaly his prison had produced, from his lack of bowel movements to the dryness of his mouth when he woke up. For Bossuet, Enjolras had gotten surprisingly morbid, candid about his despair in a way that made Grantaire want to burn the letter to ash. He couldn’t believe that Enjolras had been so open about it. And for Musichetta, Enjolras had written a bizarre mix of sweet and savage. Telling her how much he admired her in one paragraph, and railing against the system they were all fighting in the next. For all of them he offered memories of things they’d done and experiences they’d shared, and bleak assurances of how much he missed them.

How Enjolras could walk around after pouring his heart out on paper and handing it out to everyone, Grantaire couldn’t understand. 

Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s letters had been the longest, of course. Grantaire heard it from Cosette, whose own letter had a tone of awe. Enjolras had professed his amazement at how she always remained calm and compassionate, even in the darkest times. He’d wished to be like her, to cope better with his situation.

Marius hadn’t let anyone apart from Cosette (and maybe Éponine) read his letter, but he confessed quietly to Grantaire that Enjolras had praised his bravery and steadfastness. Grantaire wasn’t as surprised as Marius obviously was, but it was still touching.

Feuilly was another who kept his letter private, but Grantaire gathered from what the others said that Enjolras had written him a long one, doubtless full of declarations of brotherly love and deep admiration. Enjolras had apparently gone into a furious diatribe against the government of Terseus in Bahorel’s letter, which both of them had always connected over since they’d both been raised there. Éponine wasn’t volunteering any information about her letter, so Grantaire wasn’t asking. Maybe she hadn’t read hers yet either.

Grantaire kept his mouth shut as much as he was able on the matter, and watched Enjolras in the days that followed. He knew he wasn’t the only one, but he was sure the others were more subtle about it. It was alarming, was all, seeing Enjolras so tactile. He stared too, even more than Grantaire did. He held eye contact with whoever he was talking to, if he wasn’t scanning them, eyes flicking up and down and about as if to be sure they were really there. Or perhaps he was memorising them. 

He’d been quiet before, but it had been quiet of a different quality to now. He would look lost and tense. He flinched at loud noises. He ate everything slowly, and his appetite had shrunk. Food had once only been fuel for him. Now he tasted everything, took his time about it, commented on the flavours.

And that was the most alarming thing, the talking. The Enjolras Grantaire had last seen before leaving on the Musain had been taciturn and upright, freer by far with admonishments than praise, every word out of his mouth sounding weighed and considered and certain. Enjolras now, when he did speak, rambled almost on a par with Grantaire. The habit of talking to himself, Grantaire supposed, was taking time to break. Jehan had warned him, but it was unsettling seeing it happen. 

“It just felt very unfair,” Enjolras said, holding the pen Bahorel had given him. “Pens could run out, but my hair wouldn’t grow? What kind of stupid rule is that? If the oxygen was endless, why couldn’t the ink be as well? I wanted to scream when I realised it was actually going to run out. Well, I did scream, but it’s not like it made any difference. I wish I’d looked for pens when I got lost, I bet I would’ve found loads, I went through so many rooms. But who knows? There weren’t even any tablets, it was weird enough finding paper. I mean, a pad of paper and a pen just happened to be there in the antechamber where I needed them? What’re the odds? And only one pen, and only one pad of paper.”

Grantaire had always been enthralled when Enjolras spoke before, but what he felt now listening to him was more like morbid fascination. Even when Enjolras wasn’t speaking about his experience in the time-warp room-ship (as Bossuet had taken to calling it), he was speaking so candidly and openly that it was making Grantaire blush to hear him. Which was absurd on so many levels that Grantaire just wasn’t thinking about it. Much.

Enjolras must have really pushed himself to find Grantaire in the galley on his own, on that first evening. Watching him twist to keep people in his line of sight, purposefully brushing against them and accepting their hands on him with a gratitude that hurt to see, Grantaire realised how much he needed the physical contact. But seeing him telegraph it so openly was strange and almost frightening. 

About to walk down the hall his cabin was on almost a week after his return, Grantaire heard voices and paused, drawing back when he realised it was Joly and Enjolras.

“It’s healthy,” Joly was telling Enjolras in his doctor voice, the straightforward one that brooked no argument.

“It’s weird.” One of Enjolras’ new voices, the uncertain one. Grantaire only realised he’d crossed his arms over his chest when he felt his fingers digging into his elbows.

“No, it’s good for everyone. It’s a good thing, Enjolras, seriously. We’ve known about the benefits of platonic touching for literally centuries, but people are mostly socialised to feel too awkward to actually do it, even if they know the benefits. Have you noticed how much touchier Bahorel’s been lately? And Cosette? Human touch is a human need. There have been multiple studies about it. I’ll dig a few up, if you’re interested.”

“No, I believe you.” Enjolras sighed. “I feel stupid about it, that’s all. Like a child.”

“Children are less inhibited. Many would say it’s a good thing.” A pause, a rustle of clothing, and Grantaire knew without having to look that they were hugging. “Including myself,” Joly went on. “And it’s helping, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Well then.”

“There’s still…”

“Yes?”

“Nothing. I mean, it isn’t nothing. I’ve just noticed.” A frustrated sigh. “Some of them have been avoiding me. I think it’s because they don’t want me to get all clingy on them.”

Behind the corner, Grantaire winced. He hadn’t thought he’d been noticeable, but of course Enjolras would have picked up on it.

But Joly said, “Marius, right?”

“And Grantaire and Éponine.”

“They all have their own issues, that’s all. They’ll get close if they want to.”

“You don’t think I’m creeping them out?”

“I don’t think Éponine’s the type to keep quiet if someone’s creeping her out,” Joly said dryly, and something in Grantaire’s chest panged at Enjolras’ soft huff of laughter.

“I guess not.”

“Don’t worry about it, Enjolras. They’ve got your letters, they know you love them.”

“I don’t think Grantaire’s read his.”

“Yeah, well, I love him, but Grantaire’s not exactly the pinnacle of emotional health.” Grantaire could hear the smile in his voice, but it still stung. It was true, but it was embarrassing to hear Joly say so.

“Well I’m in no position to be judging people right now,” Enjolras said, as Grantaire started to back away so he could walk up again with a bit of noise. “I’m the biggest mess on the ship.”

“Probably,” Joly agreed, cheerful again. “But the important thing is that you’re addressing it, not letting it fester.”

On second thought, Grantaire decided, maybe he didn’t want to see either of them at all. He turned tail and slipped back down the hall to the galley, his go-to destination for avoiding people without actually hiding from them.

 

Grantaire ran his fingernails over the edges of the folded paper in his pocket, imagining they were his nerves. He’d fled the mess as soon as possible to escape from Bahorel’s latest game. Apparently one of the things Enjolras had written in his letter was a regret that he didn’t know all of Bahorel’s famous anecdotes and stories, so while they’d eaten, Bahorel had invented a game of telling, or so he called it.

Round the table, one at a time, each of them had to tell everyone else there something that not all of them knew. “Because obviously some of us know each other inside out,” Bahorel had said, breezy as anything, as if he hadn’t very obviously sent both Grantaire and Éponine into discreet panic spirals. “But there’s still loads of stuff we don’t all know about each other.”

Lots of them had resorted to childhood stories. Éponine used her turns tactfully, telling them about Azelma’s new position as a botanist at a research facility on Artex Station, and Gavroche’s decision when he was a kid that he would be a classical musician. Cosette told them about the last time she’d eaten fresh strawberries. Joly told them about the first time he’d tried to give himself a mohawk. Jehan talked for almost ten minutes about her pet cat from when she was a kid.

Grantaire had to be prompted. “Tell us about one of your tattoos,” Bossuet had said, before anyone could ask him to talk about his past.

Relieved, Grantaire had half made up a tale about the circle of feeding fish on his back being inspired by an embroidery he’d seen on a woman’s dress. He lied about chasing her down so that he could get a proper picture, and the woman telling him they would bring him luck.

He’d kept to the truth for his second story, feeling guilty about the lies. It was short and boring as a result. “I once bet a person I could drink twenty shots in thirty seconds and recite the alphabet backwards, and I won.”

Hiding in his cabin now, he wished there was a way he could erase both stories from everyone’s minds. They were both stupid and ugly, and made him look like an idiot. And Enjolras had been sitting there with Bahorel’s arm around his shoulders the whole time, solemnly watching the face of whoever was speaking. It had been unbearable.

Pretending it was an impulsive move, Grantaire tugged the letter out of his pocket and unfolded it. His pretending extended into imagining that his hands were being rough on the paper because he didn’t care, not because they were shaking.

_Dear Grantaire._

He skimmed the first page, only picking out the words he could read easily. Enjolras’ handwriting was small and slanted, difficult to decipher. Only a few words jumped out – _letters, wishes, understand, hidden, wouldn’t, selfish, regret, vulnerable._

Grantaire closed his eyes, uncertain. Was this the right time? He didn’t know if there would ever be a right time though, and if Enjolras could tell that he hadn’t read it yet, that meant that there was something important in the pages, something Enjolras had wanted him to know before he died.

Just the first page, he decided, and pulled his bunk down from the wall to sit on while he read, smoothing the yellow paper out on his thighs. It was slow going, but that just gave weight to every word.

_Dear Grantaire,_

_Yours is one of the last letters I’m writing. I almost never know what to say to you, and now is no different, even when you’re not here to derail and interrupt me. I wish you were. I know exactly what you would say to that – “ME?” playing up the shock. And yes, you. You._

_These letters have been full of wishes, endless wishes. Wishes for you and the others to find me, be here with me. Wishes that I’d told you things, that I’d been more open, more demonstrative. I think perhaps you’d understand. You were demonstrative in ways I’m not, but I think we both kept a lot hidden._

_One of my frequent wishes is that I’d told you all more about myself. I don’t know now why I was so determined not to talk about myself. I think I wanted to represent more than myself, and on a selfish level to seem more untouchable and mysterious, as if that’s an appealing trait. It’s not that I wouldn’t talk about myself, I suppose, but more that I would never volunteer to. And if people did ask questions, I would make my answers evasive or short._

_It looks like a selfish wish, but I’ve had a lot of time to think about it, and a lot of time to sit with my regrets. I think about why I regret this so much, and it comes down to vulnerability, the way things so often do. You make yourself vulnerable when you reveal things about yourself, even small, innocuous things like your favourite food, or the name of your hometown. I’ve spent so much of my life on guard, suspicious and wary of anyone asking me about anything_

“Fuck.” Grantaire’s throat had closed up, and he closed his eyes to get his bearings. It was the way Enjolras had written in the past tense, like he’d been convinced he would never see them again. Grantaire knew a thing or two about loneliness, but what Enjolras had been through was on a whole other level. And he knew that, he’d been thinking about nothing else (however much he’d tried not to) ever since they’d gotten back to the Corinthe, but still.

Now he’d started, he couldn’t stop. He turned the paper over and kept reading. 

_personal, that even my most trusted friends expressing an interest felt like a threat. I never should have treated any of you like a threat. In retrospect, it was enormously self-important of me, and stupid too. Vulnerability in the presence of friends is only a risk if you don’t trust them, and I would trust you all with my life. Only not, it seems, with my secrets. I should have done. What’s inside your head makes you vulnerable, but the act of sharing it is a strength._

_I remember you used to mourn a mystery revealed, or a riddle unwrapped. But it’s likely you’ll never read this anyway, so what does it matter? I can tell you anything, and pretend you’ll read this, or hear me when I talk aloud, which I do constantly now._

_So I’ll tell you some of the things I never told you. Even if this is a pointless exercise, I can pretend. Pretending is all I have left at this point._

_I never told anyone apart from Courf and Combeferre that the scar on the back of my right calf came from falling off a platform on Orion Station’s stupid docks. I don’t know why not – it’s a funny story. I think you would have laughed at it, at me. When I was a kid, I used to watch endless S-Dramas, and I loved them. One of the things I always miss about planets with water is the limitless showers. I could stand in a hot shower for hours. I was terrified every time I had to space walk, even though I’d done it a hundred times. I was with my mother when she died. I hated it when we were docked and I couldn’t be within a ship’s length of all of you. I was terrified of losing you. I had nightmares about losing any of you. I had a dream once where we were in a firefight, you and me and some bandits or freighters or something, and you got killed, and I held you as you died. It was awful. I’ve had dreams like that about everyone._

_I hated killing people. I know you and the others thought I was ruthless, but it was only because I had to be. I never wanted to be. I cried when I killed my first person. I can still remember it so clearly. I’ll feel guilty about it till my own dying day. There’s a part of me that thinks I deserve this endless, deathless purgatory because of what I’ve done. I’d still rather be here myself than condemn anyone else to it, but maybe that will change. I’m already losing it. One of the reasons I decided to write these letters was to try and keep myself sane. Mostly it’s just made me even more wrecked._

_I’ve ended up being more self-centred in your letter than most, and more maudlin. I can’t tell if it’s because I’m nearly done, or because I think you would understand. I have little enough to base that assumption on but my faulty memories, which, when it comes to you, I’ve scrutinised deeply. I miss you. I miss you so much._

_I don’t know how long I’ve been here. I’ve detailed my poor excuses for exploits too many times now to bother again – you can ask one of the others about it if you really want to know._

_(I had to break off to laugh for a long time there, at the thought of you actually getting these letters. It seems so impossible now.)_

_It feels like I’ve been here for months, at least. I’ve tried keeping track by counting how many times I sleep, but it’s an impossible way to try and track time. A nap can feel like it lasts for hours. A deep REM cycle can feel like it’s over in minutes. And I sleep a lot now. There’s nothing else to do. I’m too scared to go exploring again. I can’t help wondering how long it will take for me to lose it completely and run off into the endless corridors. I can’t even look at the doorway sometimes. It’s like it’s waiting for me. But even now, it feels empty. If there ever was a monster in here, it’s long gone. Or maybe it’s me – once I’ve lost all reason completely I’ll become a mindless creature haunting this place. It already feels like that, sometimes. I wish there was a monster – at least then I wouldn’t be alone._

_I’m so lonely I think it’s driving me mad. I’d give anything not to be alone. I keep thinking about the time you and I were on the Musain with Chetta, just before we raided that cell shipment coming out of GARO. When Chetta put her earbuds in and went to sleep and it was just you and me on the bridge. You were in the co-pilot’s chair, and after I made it clear I wasn’t going to bite your head off you relaxed enough that I could pretend to be annoyed by your talking. It was a fine line to walk – I had to make it obvious that I was only pretending. I wouldn’t bother now. I’d hang on every word. I keep thinking about it, and about you, and about how much I ignored, or pretended to ignore. How much potential I wasted. How many chances I let slip by._

_I didn’t know you as well as I wanted to, as well as I should have done. Maybe that’s why I imagine you being here with me so often, but I know that isn’t entirely true. You’ll never read this, so why be dishonest? Even now, it’s difficult to open up, especially to you, who I never fully understood. You said so many times that you didn’t care about human or AI rights, but you flew with us and fought with us and always fed us when you could. I don’t think you ever gave me a serious answer to any of my questions. Why not? I can’t tell these cycles (as if I can count cycles, here) if I’m remembering you as you were, or if I’m projecting. I’m not sure if it matters now._

_In the end, I don’t know how well I knew you. This is why I think you’d understand my reticence to be open and honest, even with my friends. You and I are equally avoidant, I think, just in different ways. I hold my tongue, and you let yours fly. I could never tell when you were being serious or honest, because you covered everything you said with embellishments and jokes and digressions. I clammed up; you overwhelmed with volume. And only now do I realise that despite your loud mouth and long, winding speeches, you managed to give away almost nothing about yourself. I wish we could have been better friends, close enough to let our respective guards down. I’ve spent, and spend hours imagining it, the two of us learning more about each other and growing closer. I spend hours trying to remember things about you. Your hair, the way you walk, the sound of your voice. Your wit. The kindness you always tried to hide or deny. Did you know that we all knew who transferred those credits into Cosette’s account when she needed them? You waited until after she’d put out a general call so that you could be anonymous, but we all knew. I’m sure I’m not the only one who knows you’re the only person Éponine trusted to go and visit her family with. And there are so many other, small things – I remember the way you could cheer Jehan up, and distract Joly, and the way you never said no when things mattered. You would listen and play games and spar and cook._

_I miss your cooking more than you could ever imagine. I miss the careless ease with which you could throw ingredients together. You always fed us when you could. And you were so clever with it, rationing and stealing and hiding things until the perfect moment. Like the time you baked a cake for Bahorel and Bossuet’s birthdays, and the time you produced a perfect orange from nowhere when Marius was desperate for fruit. And the time you gave me chocolates. Do you remember that? I worry that every time I remember it I remember less and create more, reconstructing over the original so many times I’ll erase the truth. But it happened. You gave me chocolates. A small box that must have cost you a small fortune. You tried to make me promise not to share them, because you’d already given everyone else those candied medallions and the chocolates were just for me. And I still insisted you have one for yourself, and we stood together in the galley like children, licking our fingertips and grinning at each other. I can’t stop remembering it, trying to savour it the way I savoured those chocolates. I go as slowly as I can, and try to linger on the details. I’m sure I’ve made some of them up. Was your shirt really blue that day? Had you shaved, or did you have stubble? Were you wearing your hair up or down? I think it was before you got your industrial piercing, but I’m not sure. Did you roll your eyes or smile? I can’t be sure. I hope you smiled. You seemed to like me, sometimes. It’s another thing I’m not sure about. Did you like me?_

_Do you remember the time we danced after the first job you ran with us? I thought about that a lot even before getting trapped here. You didn’t finish the song – you ran away. You ran away from me a lot, I’ve realised, sitting here on my own with nothing to do but remember all the times and ways you’ve done it._

_I wish I could have asked you why. You didn’t seem to run from the others in the same way. Is it egotistical to hope – either you disliked me, or liked me too much and didn’t want to show it. Even in a letter that’s become more like a diary entry, it stings me to even admit to hoping it was the latter. Even now, it’s difficult. I think I wanted you to like me, if I let myself think about it. I want you to have cared about me. It makes no difference now, but I keep thinking about it, and about all those missed opportunities._

_Sometimes we don’t allow ourselves to act on our impulses out of fear, because we’re afraid of exposing ourselves in our all weakness and vulnerability. In the end, I was afraid of your ridicule, even though you gave me no reason to expect it. Whenever we had anything resembling a personal conversation you were never anything less than friendly. Awkward, perhaps, maybe less at ease with me than the others, but maybe that was because I was the captain, or at least felt set apart as though I was. I miss the way you would call me captain, like the others sometimes did. You almost always did. Captain, chief, boss, or something similar. To keep me at a distance? I’ll never know now._

_And even though you were always civil and friendly, I was afraid. I’ve realised how much of my life was dictated by fear and anger. Anger can be good – rage at the injustices people are forced to bear by their oppressors is natural and right, and if it spurs a person to action then it has served a valuable purpose. But fear is almost never useful. Perhaps only when it makes you necessarily cautious and keeps you sharp. But most of the time, fear freezes you and keeps you still and silent. Trapped._

_Maybe I’m trying to conquer my old fears to try and feel less trapped here. It isn’t really working. I sleep and write and sleep and sleep and walk around this room and avoid looking at the doors and sleep and sleep and sleep and try to keep my body fit just for something to do. And then I give up and go back to sleep, just to escape. If I could sleep forever then I would. I only see other people in my dreams. I love my dreams now. I hate being awake, despise the sound of my own voice and thoughts, my pointless regrets and reminiscing, my unending despair and boredom. Writing helps, but my pen will run out before long. I’ve been careful – I’ve made sure I’ll have enough for these letters, and I’ll use up the rest as I please, maybe by writing lists of things I miss. I can’t bear the thought of writing out all the things I would do if you found me. It just makes me cry. I don’t think I’d cried for years before this. In the end, it can’t have been more than a few days before I broke on that front. It was almost a relief. Crying gets easier the more you do it, and it’s easy to cry now. All I need to do is think about all of you. I’m rubbed raw by all my mourning. Pointless mourning for things that will never happen._

_I pretend you’re here with me._

_I pretend all of you are here, of course, and I’ve spent days pretending I was trapped here with just Combeferre, just Courfeyrac, just – etc. And just you. I like pretending you’re with me. You would talk nonsense and lose that inexplicable distance you pull around yourself when I’m near. You’d invent games and tell me stories and listen to me talk and argue with me and I’d never be able to predict the next thing to come out of your mouth. You talked about Earth pirates when we were on the Musain that time – something I knew nothing about, a subject that didn’t become interesting until it was in your mouth. Everything you say is interesting, even when it’s annoying or wrong. I’d cut off my own arm for an argument with you. I miss your way with words and the way you smirk before you do something infuriating like switch positions mid-debate. I always loved listening to you talk to the others like that, winding them up until they just gave up and tried to banish you for being such a pain. You were so funny and clever, and an impossible nuisance of a man. I like pretending you’re with me, but I can never imagine you well enough to make myself happy. My imagination always falls short._

_I miss you all so much it’s like a physical pain, but I was surprised for a second when I realised how much I missed you specifically. Infuriating, impossible you. Charming and sarcastic and dark-humoured and brave. I stay in this antechamber both out of fear of getting lost again, and desperate hope that one day the door will open and I’ll see you and the others. You’ll rescue me, and I’ll never take anything for granted or let opportunities pass me by ever again. This has become a love letter of sorts, which is both unsurprising and not. If I saw you again, I hope I would be brave enough to at least risk opening myself up to your ridicule. More likely you’d be kind. That’s the sort of person you are. Easy to like, easy to fall in love with. Yours is the last letter I’m finishing. I’m terrible at endings. Even my own – I can’t seem to die, still clinging to idiotic hope. I think you’d say that that’s just the sort of person I am. I could have fallen in love with you, if I’d given myself the chance._

_I miss you. I’m sorry I wasn’t better._

 

It took Grantaire a while to stop crying. It was a good thing he’d waited for a sleep-cycle to read it, so he had hours to compose himself. Every time he slowed down he thought of Enjolras, dishevelled and alone, writing letters over the span of weeks or months that he never expected to see delivered, and started crying all over again. The worst thing about it was that the last couple of pages already had a couple of smudges on them that Grantaire _knew_ were teardrops, which meant that Enjolras had cried while writing it. 

The last time he’d felt so empty and full at the same time he’d run away from home, gotten blackout drunk, and started a stupid fight that had ended with him in a hospital with two broken ribs, a fractured skull, and a crushed toe.

Good thing he was on a spaceship with no way of pulling off another stunt like that, really.

Good thing he hadn’t been on the Corinthe when they’d found that dead ship.

Good thing Enjolras was the sort of person to hold onto hope rather than succumb to despair.

Grantaire found himself completely unable to process the letter, and did what he always did when emotional complexity presented itself when there was no alcohol to hand – he turned off the light and went to sleep (after carefully putting the letter away, of course).

Irritatingly, nothing knocked him out like the prospect of having to deal with intense feelings, but it wasn’t exactly a reliable strategy for combating insomnia.

 

Grantaire’s duties as the ship’s cook covered only the last meal of the cycle. Breakfast and lunch were individual matters for each person to deal with as they saw fit, so long as none of them touched the ingredients in the two cupboards that Grantaire kept for dinners.

So although Grantaire’s alarm woke him at the end of his designated sleep-cycle, he wouldn’t need to be anywhere for hours yet. They were still two cycles out from Libera, so there was nothing anyone needed to do but keep the course steady and wait. Grantaire could stay in his bunk until dinner needed preparing and no one would come looking.

As soon as he thought that, a more rational part of his mind chimed in with a reminder that if he didn’t show his face after a few hours, someone would surely notice and search him out. Far from an annoyance, the thought was warming. Grantaire had never been on a crew like this before, one that really did feel like a family. From his definition, that meant that no matter how big or stupid or nasty a fight got, they would always be there for each other. No negativity could cancel out the loyalty.

He turned his light onto the dimmest setting and sat up slowly, keeping his eyes closed until he was sure he was ready to look for the letter. He needed to read it all again.

It didn’t make him cry on the second read, but his throat was definitely tight. But a cycle’s sleep between the first and second time helped, his reactions not quite on the level of white noise this time.

No, this time he was cognizant enough to fix on that second-to-last line. _I could have fallen in love with you, if I’d given myself the chance._ Fix on it, but not process it. He read the letter again, this time counting the number of times Enjolras had told him he missed him, or something about him. It was eight. 

Enjolras had hoped to be brave enough to give Grantaire the letter, knowing the risk that his feelings weren’t reciprocated. How could Grantaire possibly face him now, having sat on his own crush for four years and saying nothing? With no plan to ever say anything either?

And Enjolras suspected. Only a tiny bit, but he still hoped (and how terrifying was that?) that Grantaire had kept him at a distance out of a fear of showing too much, which was exactly what he’d done. But if Grantaire went to him now and told him that he’d made a mistake, Enjolras would accept it, no questions asked. 

Grantaire had always approached hope with caution. Hope could make people do dangerous things. Hope could get them hurt or killed or imprisoned. When it came to hope in love, that held true, even if the risk was mainly downgraded to embarrassment. In the past, hope had gotten Grantaire into some seriously unpleasant situations, including the one where he’d been stabbed and robbed. He’d learned not to trust it, generally speaking. Joining the crew of the Corinthe hadn’t been an act of hope, but of desperation. Staying had been an act of loyalty.

He’d be acting on hope if he went to Enjolras with the truth of his feelings, and it unsettled him.

Grantaire’s head was already starting to spin from the pressure of the situation, and he swung his legs over the side of the bunk and stood, deciding on the spur of the moment to do nothing. Overthinking – or thinking too hard about anything at all – had never led him to anything but trouble. Winging it didn’t have a much better track record, but slightly better was better than nothing, in his opinion.

Of course, deciding not to think about something didn’t necessarily mean he was able to put it neatly out of his mind. Thinking about anything else as he got dressed and walked the short distance from his cabin to the mess was basically impossible, and got even harder when he arrived to find Enjolras already there, eating breakfast with Courfeyrac on one side and Bossuet on the other, the two of them talking across Enjolras as though he wasn’t there.

Enjolras wasn’t a happy riser, much like Grantaire, who didn’t even like to eat during the first hour or so he was awake. He sank onto one of the sofas and tried to read something on his tablet, pretending that part of his brain wasn’t treacherously wondering whether waking up with Enjolras would be pleasant, since they were both quiet and slow first thing.

Joly poked his head in before Grantaire could really start to panic. “How would you guys feel about Terraform Extremis?” AKA the most complicated holoboard game they’d managed to find this side of the galaxy, which Grantaire had never seen Enjolras play more than once. But this time he lit up at the prospect. 

“Sounds good.”

Bossuet and Courfeyrac were in too, but Grantaire made a face when Joly looked at him. “I’ll be on a team with someone, but I don’t wanna be a solo player.”

“That works,” Joly said, unconcerned. “I’ll check in with the others.” 

Terraform Extremis’ premise, at the simplest level, was for each player to terraform as many planets and moons as possible within the timeframe of the game. In practice, maybe two out of the possible ten players would actually manage that, and the rest of them would descend into the horribly complicated mess of politics, trading, and infights that really made up the bulk of the game while failing to terraform more than one or two lonely outposts. It was definitely more than Grantaire could cope with right now.

That wasn’t the case for the rest of the crew, who were more than happy to pass the time in a way that actually promised some entertainment. Marius and Courfeyrac made one team, Jehan and Cosette a second, and when asked who he wanted to pair up with, Grantaire made one of those spur-of-the-moment decisions he always ended up regretting, and said, “Enjolras – fancy a tactician?”

The look of pleased surprise Enjolras gave him made Grantaire feel a little winded, and the rational part of his brain went into a panicked shutdown the moment he realised he would have to go and sit next to Enjolras so they could play together. Still, without that rational voice it was easy to cross the room and help Enjolras set up their station. Terraform Extremis’ other distinction in their impressive game collection was the ridiculous size of its box, which would have been better described as a crate. 

“I’m not going to be very good at this,” Enjolras warned him. 

“Me neither.” Grantaire avoided looking at him, but couldn’t avoid the way their thighs were touching. Whether it was because of Enjolras’ new touch-happy approach to his friends or just so they would both have access to the station, he didn’t know. “You sort through our resource cards, I think they’re meant to be important.”

With ten players, taking turns would have dragged out what was already a very long game into an unbearable one, so the action in Terraform Extremis was done in rounds. Everyone moved at the same time, and if people clashed, that was dealt with at the end of the round. Pretty much everyone was clashing with someone, but Grantaire had decided on a stealth approach (which Enjolras had agreed with in the manner of someone who didn’t really know what was happening) so they didn’t clash with anyone for the first four rounds.

“You’re good at this,” Enjolras said under his breath as the deliberation for the fifth round began. Everyone else had clashed at least once so far, and Grantaire knew their time was coming both because of how the game worked and the suspicious looks they were getting from their crewmates. 

“Surprised, captain?” Good to know that old instincts were still intact underneath the new sheen of uncertainty.

Enjolras grinned. “Not really. What are we going to do?”

So far he’d been making low-cost resource grabs, trying to build up stock, but he was going to have to send one of their allocated characters down to the central council soon to make sure they weren’t confiscated over some law he hadn’t had a chance to have a say in. “Send the sword guy down to the council,” he muttered, trying not to let anyone overhear. “Head for AB-1.”

“Hold back,” Enjolras said, just as quietly. “Éponine’s going to move in on that space. Head for LD-2.”

“It’s just a moon though?”

“But from there you can block Combeferre’s terraforming project on LD-1.”

Combeferre had been gearing up in the last two rounds, Grantaire remembered, and nodded. “Okay. I’ve got a bonus move left – I was gonna ping Cosette with a trading proposition.”

Enjolras nodded. “Do it.”

“Aye-aye, captain.”

The smile Enjolras gave him flustered Grantaire so much that he had to scramble to get everything ready as Feuilly (always their defacto gamemaster, whether he was playing or not) announced the countdown to round five.

By round ten, after they’d paused to eat lunch, Feuilly, Cosette and Jehan, and Grantaire and Enjolras had emerged as the heavyweights. Bahorel, Marius and Courfeyrac, and Joly were all being instructed (nominally at least) by Feuilly, Cosette and Jehan controlled Éponine and Combeferre, and somehow Grantaire and Enjolras had managed to establish influence over Bossuet and Musichetta. 

They were in synch now, both of them into the game in a way Grantaire never had been before. He was always better with a teammate, but this was different. Enjolras had gotten his head around the rules and Grantaire had relaxed. They were wedged together on the sofa now, shielding their station from any prying eyes and whispering between rounds with their heads bent together. And in the context of the game, Grantaire wasn’t freaking out about the intimacy. Outside of that context, every look Enjolras gave him was a thrill, especially since Grantaire was close enough to see him definitely blushing a couple of times.

Round fifteen was where it traditionally started to get properly violent, but in the end everyone managed to hold off for two more rounds, which meant that when shit did hit the fan, it made a real mess. By the end of it, Marius and Courfeyrac had been wiped completely off the map, Musichetta only had one council member left, and Éponine had staged a coup against Cosette and Jehan. It was absolute carnage, and everyone was loving it.

Enjolras saw victory coming before Grantaire did, and got a grip on his arm as they waited for everyone else to finish planning for the twenty-third round. By the end of it, they were the undisputed winners. The remaining players – Feuilly, Éponine, Bahorel, and Musichetta – could have called for it to continue, but everyone was tired and hungry by then, so they declared Grantaire and Enjolras the champions.

Grantaire barely had time to grin before Enjolras was hugging him, laughing against his ear for a second before drawing back. “You were brilliant!”

“Teams shouldn’t be allowed,” Éponine sniped, pretending annoyance. “Neither of you would’ve made it ten rounds on your own.”

“That’s definitely true for me,” Grantaire agreed. His grin hadn’t faded, and he wasn’t entirely sure if the ache in his chest was from hunger or want. “Hey, who wants consolation noodles?” There was a general groan of affirmation, and as Grantaire stood up and stretched, he bumped his knee against Enjolras’ in a final rush of bravery. “Come on, captain. You won too, you should help me cook.”

Enjolras gave him an assessing look, and then a small smile. “Okay.” He pushed himself up onto his feet. “I’ll just be a second, you go ahead.”

Grantaire nodded and went through to the galley as Enjolras went out through the main door. Probably to the bathroom, Grantaire figured, and stared at the galley counters for a moment before touching the edges of the letter in his pocket and pulling it out. He wished he had time to read it all through again. It kept muddling together in his head; Enjolras remembering the way they’d talked on the Musain, his obsession with how much he was sleeping, the details of what he’d missed about Grantaire.

He was full, his quiet crush fanned into a fire by Enjolras’ letter, stoked even further by spending so many hours pressed against him on a sofa, both of them caught up in strategy and mayhem and fun. All that, warring with the stubborn voice inside him that said that he was being absurd, that Enjolras couldn’t possibly be interested in an actual relationship with him.

Grantaire unfolded the paper and brushed his fingers down the first page. For the first time, he considered the strange intimacy of seeing Enjolras’ handwriting. They lived on a spaceship with no call for handwritten messages or notes, all text-based missives conveyed in the same font and format. Handwriting was so personal and distinctive.

Grantaire skimmed the letter, turning the pages over and holding them carefully. Tiny black words on yellow paper, huge paragraphs of them. He paused at the bottom of the eighth page to read. _Sometimes we don’t allow ourselves to act on our impulses out of fear, because we’re afraid of exposing ourselves in our all weakness and vulnerability._

“You read it.”

Grantaire didn’t quite jump, but it was a close thing. Enjolras came into the galley properly, glancing between Grantaire’s face and the pages in his hands. “Oh,” Grantaire said, belatedly. “Um. Yeah. Just last night.” He had no idea what to say. To stall, he looked down at the letter, turning the pages over so the folds fitted together and he was looking at the last page.

 _I pretend you’re here with me._

The line stood out, isolated as it was, and Grantaire swallowed and skimmed the paragraph below it, grateful that Enjolras wasn’t pushing him to speak. “The distance,” he said suddenly, shooting Enjolras a quick look. “You said, um, wrote, the…the inexplicable distance?”

Enjolras nodded, one side of his mouth twitching. Something closer to a grimace than a smile. “I might have just been imagining or projecting things.”

“You weren’t.” Grantaire reread the line – _that inexplicable distance you pull around yourself when I’m near_ – “It’s not distance,” he said. “It’s shyness.”

“You’re shy around me?” When Grantaire sneaked another look, Enjolras’ grimace had turned into a small, slightly confused smile. 

Grantaire made himself nod. His fingers rustled the paper as he shifted it, his hands seeming huge and clumsy.

“Why?”

“The stuff you wrote,” Grantaire said instead of answering. “Did you know it before?”

Enjolras didn’t ask him what he meant. “Not consciously. I’m good at ignoring things when I want to. That’s why I said I could’ve fallen for you, not that I did.”

That he could say it without even sounding nervous was astonishing to Grantaire, who could barely articulate the questions he wanted to ask. Not that Enjolras had left any doubt for him to prod at. 

Enjolras thought he was brave. Grantaire folded the letter up and ran his fingertips along the edges. “It’s been longer for me.”

“You’ve…liked me for longer?” Enjolras’ smile grew a fraction, which just made Grantaire’s heart flutter stupidly. 

“I’ve had a shine for you forever,” he said quietly, mindful of the rest of the crew in the mess just beyond the door. 

“How long’s forever?”

“Since I joined the crew. Since I met you, really.” He could feel the heat in his cheeks, and just hoped it wasn’t visible. There was a pause, and Grantaire steeled himself before looking over at Enjolras.

He was frowning, just slightly. “You never said anything.”

“No.”

“Were you…ever going to say anything?” Enjolras tilted his head, but he sounded more confused than angry, so Grantaire relaxed a bit.

“Probably not.” He shrugged, looking down at the letter again. “No.”

“Why?”

“I just didn’t…I don’t know.” How could he possibly explain it? “It was impossible. I didn’t want you to have to deal with it. And my judgement’s never been what you’d call good. Or, shit, even okay. The last person I fell for ended up almost killing me.” He winced reflexively at the admission, wishing he’d held his tongue.

“Well I wouldn’t do that.” Enjolras took a step towards him, and Grantaire managed to meet his eyes.

“I’d hope not,” he said. “Who’d cook for you?”

“Who indeed?” Enjolras smiled. “You were just going to sit on it forever?”

“It was working pretty well.” Grantaire couldn’t look away now, rooted to the spot by that smile. “It was like you wrote.” He tried to indicate the letter, but wasn’t sure if his hands could move. “Fear of vulnerability.”

“You thought I’d make a joke of it?”

“I imagined you’d let me down really nicely,” Grantaire said quietly. “Which would’ve been even worse. And then you’d know, and I’d know you’d know, and everyone else would know, and…I probably would’ve jumped ship. Running away, like you said.”

Enjolras came to a stop in front of him, and Grantaire looked down when he did, looking at the letter he was holding. Enjolras lifted his hands and skated his fingers over Grantaire’s slowly until he was covering them, both of them cradling the paper until Enjolras twisted his hands so he was holding Grantaire’s.

“Would you like to try?” Enjolras asked, looking up at him after a moment. “Doing this, I mean?”

Grantaire had to swallow before he could reply. “Yeah. Yes.” Enjolras’ answering smile was beautiful, somehow sly and hopeful at the same time. Grantaire leaned forward, and when Enjolras tipped his head in blatant invitation, Grantaire kissed him.

As kisses went, it was pretty perfect. It got even better when Enjolras wrapped one arm around Grantaire’s waist and cupped his cheek with his other hand, as if he somehow knew it would make Grantaire go weak at the knees. Kissing Enjolras was amazing. Quite possibly the best experience of Grantaire’s life to date. 

Enjolras’ thumb swept a line against his cheekbone, and Grantaire revised – definitely the best experience of his life to date. “Please don’t change your mind,” he breathed between kisses.

“Unlikely,” Enjolras grinned, walking Grantaire back until he was leaning against the counter, his arms gentle around Enjolras’ waist. “I had a lot of time to think about it in there.”

Grantaire made a soft noise and kissed his cheek, then the corner of his eye. “I hate that it happened to you though.”

“I’m getting better.” Enjolras’ eyes were closed, face tipped to receive more kisses. Grantaire obliged with another against his temple, stunned by the fact that he could. “I don’t panic every time I’m on my own now.”

“How have you been going to the bathroom?” Grantaire asked suddenly, the thought just occurring to him. He experienced a split second of horror at his own lack of tact before Enjolras started laughing.

“I managed doing that alone after a couple of days.”

“What about before that?” Grantaire heard himself ask.

“Courf or Combeferre stood outside the door and kept talking to me. It was kind of pathetic, but they didn’t mind.”

“Well they’d walk through fire for you, so I guess it’s not that arduous to just keep up a conversation through a door.” Grantaire pulled back so Enjolras could see his face. “Please feel free to tell me to shut up any time.”

“Okay.” Enjolras just smiled at him. “I’m not telling you right now though.”

“More fool you.” Grantaire shook his head, feeling a little dizzy. “You know what I’m like.”

“I do.” Enjolras grinned and kissed him again. So gently Grantaire felt his heart skip a beat. “I can’t wait to find out more.”

“At least you know you weren’t projecting?” Grantaire offered, his mouth still somehow working despite the shutdown of his brain. “It was just me being a coward.”

“It’s not cowardice to try and protect yourself.” Enjolras’ hand moved against his face, sliding down to curl around the back of his neck. “Especially considering the only one you were really hurting was yourself. I can argue with you on this for as long as it takes, you know.”

Grantaire’s next exhale came out as a shaky laugh, and he let his eyes fall closed for a moment. Enjolras responded by pulling his head down so that he could press a kiss to the middle of his forehead. His face was still very close when Grantaire opened his eyes, and they looked at each other for two very long seconds before Grantaire looked at Enjolras’ mouth. He had time to see it curve up in a smile before Enjolras was kissing him again.

They might not have stopped if Enjolras hadn’t reminded him that they’d originally come in here to make everyone dinner. Grantaire had never really considered instant noodles a sexy dish before, yet here he was, trying to pour boiling water into pots without burning himself because he was so distracted by Enjolras’ proximity. The galley wasn’t large, and of course Enjolras was still his new touchy self. At least Grantaire could see that Enjolras was as affected as he was, both of them facing the counters when Joly popped his head in to check on them. They had to wait a couple of minutes before serving, both of them grinning at each other from opposite sides of the galley.

Grantaire kept his head down when they went back into the mess. He didn’t want to see who among the crew could tell what had happened just by looking at them – he felt exposed enough as it was from his confession without adding to it.

Strangely enough though, it was Enjolras who looked nervous when he got up to help Grantaire clear the bowls. As soon as they were back in the galley, he pressed their shoulders together and spoke quietly, eyes on the counter. “Can I sleep with you tonight? But only sleep?”

“Want to give Combeferre and Courfeyrac some space?” Grantaire grinned. Enjolras looked at him sharply, then relaxed when he saw Grantaire’s expression.

“You’d be okay with that?”

“Sure.” Grantaire actually managed to hold his gaze. “You know me – I follow where you lead, chief.”

He’d hoped it would make Enjolras smile, and could’ve sworn his heart gave an extra hard thump when it worked.

“Thank you.” Enjolras leaned into him for a moment, then pulled back to put the bowls in the washer.

It wasn’t more than an hour before people started heading to bed, and Enjolras didn’t have to do more than give Grantaire a questioning look before he nodded. Combeferre and Courfeyrac had already gone, so Enjolras could have feasibly been going to join them, but Grantaire reckoned that those still up knew what was happening. It was enough to make him glad for what felt like the hundredth time that cycle alone that his blushes weren’t very visible.

As soon as they were in the hall, Enjolras took his hand. “I have nightmares,” he murmured. “I should’ve said.”

Grantaire laced their fingers together, smiling helplessly. “Me too, it’s fine. I mean, not regularly or anything, but I’m not gonna freak out if you wake up screaming, y’know?”

“What are yours about?” And sure, it was quite a personal question, but Grantaire found that he didn’t mind. He wanted Enjolras to know things about him. If Enjolras asked him to, he’d give him anything.

“Being shot,” he said. “Mostly. Or space walks gone wrong. Is it stupid to ask what yours are about?”

“No.” Enjolras squeezed his hand. “Mine are about getting lost in the ship-room and not being able to find my way out. Sometimes I see you and the others in there, just out of reach, and I can never get to you. I don’t wake up screaming.” He looked at Grantaire sideways. “Just scared.”

“Okay.” He could handle that. “Um, this is me.” 

“After you,” Enjolras gestured to the ladder, and Grantaire smiled at him before pushing it back against the wall, which opened the hatch to his cabin. Climbing down first had the pro of giving him just enough time to gather up any dirty laundry, and the con of having to let go of Enjolras’ hand. He was just shoving the laundry in a random drawer as Enjolras came down and pulled the ladder forward again. “I don’t think I’ve ever been in here,” he said, looking around curiously.

“No cause to, I guess.” Grantaire tried to figure out what he was thinking from his expression. 

“I guess not.” Enjolras’ gaze fell on the bunk, which wasn’t folded away, and Grantaire suddenly wished he was the sort of person who made the bed. “Are you tired?”

“Um.” Grantaire lifted a shoulder, uncertain. “Not really, but I don’t really sleep well anyway, so…”

“You take knockers?”

“Oh yeah, but I’m out, and Joly won’t let me have any more. You know, blah-blah-blah, horrible side effects, potential toxic build-up, all that jazz. Are you tired?”

“I guess actually winning a game for once tired me out,” Enjolras said dryly, and touched the edge of the bunk. “Would you mind if we…?”

“No, no.” Grantaire shook his head, probably looking a little manic. “Um, do you want a tooth tab?”

“Please.” Enjolras smiled, like he hadn’t expected it. Grantaire pulled open a cupboard at head-height opposite the bunk and took out a small bottle, shaking two tablets into his hand and offering them to Enjolras. He took one and popped it into his mouth, and Grantaire followed suit. He avoided Enjolras’ eyes, weirdly shy all of a sudden. He wished he could take the letter out and reread it, to prove to himself that Enjolras had written all those things. 

As if reading his mind, Enjolras spoke around a mouthful of foam. “Iss-still me.” They both grinned at how ridiculous he sounded, and Enjolras rolled his eyes. He got up when Grantaire levered the sink down out of the wall and gestured to it. They took turns spitting and rinsing, and Grantaire didn’t realise how close they were standing until he stood up straight and Enjolras was right there, inches from his face.

“It’s still me,” he said again, a wry twist to his mouth. It softened after a second into something more nervous, and Grantaire couldn’t have that. He dipped his head a fraction to kiss Enjolras gently, and felt him smile against his lips. He’d forgotten that could happen. When was the last time he’d kissed anyone? Over a year ago now, at least. 

“Still you,” he mumbled into the gap between their mouths when they separated. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not fragile,” Enjolras said, and took half a step back so Grantaire would see him nod at his pocket, where the letter was. “I wasn’t then either.”

“Nothing wrong if you were,” Grantaire pointed out.

“I know.” Enjolras frowned, and Grantaire bit back a smile as he paused. It was a classic Enjolras trait – he was arranging his next sentence in his head, Grantaire could tell. And sure enough – “I only meant that just because this might look like it’s come out of the blue from your point of view, it hasn’t from mine. I’m still the same person as I was before I got stuck on that ship. Nothing significant has changed. I would’ve come to this conclusion regardless, whether in eight and a half months from – now,” he only stumbled for a second over the word. “Or sooner. Or later. Probably not later though.”

Grantaire couldn’t help grinning. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” Enjolras stepped back and sat on the edge of the bunk, narrowing his eyes. “Have you really liked me since we met?” He undid his fly and coherent thoughts flew from Grantaire’s head for a good few seconds as Enjolras pushed his trousers off and kicked them under the bunk, followed by his shirt. He’d always been gloriously confident. Grantaire dropped his eyes and fumbled with his own trousers, trying to look unaffected.

“Should’ve known telling you was a bad idea,” he sighed, tugging his own shirt off and resisting the urge to switch the light off before Enjolras could get a good look. As he came forward, Enjolras scooched back on the bunk to make room for him. “Don’t let it go to your head,” Grantaire warned him, climbing up and flipping the cover back. The way Enjolras lifted his legs up before sliding them under was very distracting.

“I’ll do my best.” Enjolras grinned, and Grantaire did hit the light, telling himself that this was completely fine. He was sharing his bunk with Enjolras, both of them mostly naked, and he was sort of half-hard just at the thought, but it was fine. He was fine. He could be fine.

“Sure,” he muttered, sliding down under the cover properly. “Like it’s not gonna go straight to your head, or already has. Not that you need the ego boost, honestly.”

“Hey, don’t be mean to me.” Grantaire couldn’t see him, but he could hear Enjolras smiling, and feel the heat of his body as he settled on his side opposite Grantaire. “I just survived a traumatic event.”

“Hey, we’ve all survived traumatic events here,” Grantaire snorted. “Name me one person on this ship who hasn’t been shot at or arrested.”

“Marius,” Enjolras said promptly, and yeah okay, that was fair.

“Would we say living with his grandfather counts as house arrest?” Grantaire asked.

“No. He was allowed out, remember, he was just too shy to do it.”

Enjolras’ face couldn’t be more than a few inches from his. Grantaire’s knee was touching his leg, and he concentrated on keeping his breathing even as something brushed his shoulder – Enjolras’ fingers, and the back of his hand. “You seem kind of tense,” Enjolras whispered.

“Not that I’m trying to boost your ego, but remember the part where I’ve had a gigantic thing for you for ages?” Grantaire didn’t dare turn his face away, eyes wide open to try and catch any hint of movement in the dark. “It’s kind of unreal, is all.” He paused. “You really want…I mean, you really think I’m…that I, we can do this?”

The quality of Enjolras’ silence had a smile. “I believe in you.”

Something different touched Grantaire’s shoulder, and he swallowed as he realised that it was Enjolras’ lips. A second later, fluffy hair brushed against his face and he scrunched up his nose against the tickle. “Mm.”

“Hm? Oh.” Enjolras pulled away and laughed, propping himself up on one elbow to pull it back into a ponytail. “Sorry, I forgot.” 

“I thought you wrapped it or braided it or whatever?”

“One night won’t kill it.” He flopped down again, closer this time. “Is it weird that I’ve imagined this so many times?”

“Imagined…?”

“Sleeping with you.”

While he’d been alone in the time-warp ship-room, Grantaire assumed. He tipped his head forward until it was touching Enjolras’. “You think I haven’t?”

“I guess that makes it okay then?” Enjolras yawned, Grantaire catching it a second later.

“Yeah, I think you’re okay,” Grantaire murmured when it had passed. “What was I like? When you were imagining it?”

“Too predictable.” Enjolras sounded sleepy now, his words coming out on a sigh. “Boring. I couldn’t imagine you properly.”

“I’m better in person, huh?”

“Way better.” Enjolras smiled and kissed him, a brief press of his lips to Grantaire’s. “Warmer too. I’m about to fall asleep.”

“Go ahead.” Fuck, he was so cute it was actually making Grantaire’s heart ache. “I can keep being unpredictable when you wake up.”

“Promises, promises,” Enjolras mumbled, and said nothing more. Grantaire listened to his breathing deepen, the ache in his own chest somehow intensifying. He’d stay as long as Enjolras wanted him, he decided. In his bed and on his crew. He’d follow him anywhere.

He hadn’t expected to fall asleep easily with Enjolras taking up half the bunk, but he must have, because the next thing he knew Enjolras was clutching his arm. “’Njolras?” Grantaire mumbled, rolling over to face him.

“Hi. Sorry.” Enjolras was tense. Grantaire touched his face, skidding his hand down to Enjolras’ shoulder to squeeze it. 

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Nightmare. I’m sorry.”

“’S fine.” Impulsive and sleepy, Grantaire kissed his cheek. “What happened?”

“The usual.” Enjolras let go of his arm and rolled over, and for a horrible second Grantaire thought he’d done something wrong by asking. But then Enjolras grabbed his wrist and pulled it over his waist, shifting back against him. 

Grantaire got with the programme and hugged him close, resigning himself to a dead arm until Enjolras fell back to sleep. It was worth it. “Okay?”

“Thank you.” Enjolras already sounded better. He twined their fingers together loosely and lifted them for a moment to kiss the back of Grantaire’s hand. 

Grantaire tucked his face against the back of Enjolras’ neck and grinned, stupidly overcome by the gesture. “Night, Enjolras.”

“Night.” Enjolras’ grip on his hand slackened less than a minute later, and a few minutes after that Grantaire shuffled back to give his arm enough space to lie curled between them. 

He could do this. The confidence was as warming as it was surprising, and Grantaire curled forward again to kiss Enjolras’ shoulder blade. Enjolras believed in him. They could handle anything.

**Author's Note:**

> The time-warp ship-room was definitely inspired by the house in House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski.
> 
> Find me on [tumblr!](http://myrmidryad.tumblr.com/)


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